


Imperfect

by Neffectual



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M, Sort of Underage, except not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is truly getting what they want, no one is truly satisfied, and Sebastian realises that if he wants adoration, he might have picked the wrong master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

He's got hands the size of dinner plates, and he's the entire world. He has standards, held high like his head and hair, chin tilted downwards as if to ask what the world has to offer. He's sleek, like a shark through water, a jungle cat in the grass; he is never seen unless he wishes for it. He likes a uniform, a chance to play at being the general, controlling the troops, raising his authority beyond that of the peons he must look like, if he is to pass for respectable up here. He is protector, cold shoulder on which to rest, an implacable being upon which to test every trick and every taunt; unbreakable and not bothered if he has to spend an hour buttoning and re-buttoning a shirt. He takes pleasure in the more difficult tasks, in those which take time and effort, those which his master objects to most strenuously. He is perfect, the rock which changes the course of the boat, and he has not changed since the first time the boy laid eyes on him. He has hands the size of dinner plates, and he is the entire world.

When he sees Claude stumble next to Sebastian, it is the first time Alois thinks that, maybe, Claude isn't as perfect as he'd like.

He's a bad man, a dark, treacherous slip, like a coastal shelf, falling away beneath your feet when you felt like there was solid ground to walk on. He is the shadow under every stair, the monster in every cupboard, and he prowls the halls at night, stalking his prey. He is in each curse word uttered, the stain upon a pure soul, spreading black wings over the world and making all fall to him. He is the dark which lies in the heart of man, that which changes all shades of grey to dark as pitch, and makes fools of wise men, devils of priests, whores of frail maidens. He has no fear, no feelings beyond servitude, no cares in the world but that his master is kept safe until such a time as the contract can be fulfilled. He does what he can to make the days easier, the sweetness of the juxtaposition grow, the future lengthen, all for a better meal when the time comes. For now, he is a hand on the shoulder, a help, an emotional blank to echo the look on his master's face. He's a bad, bad man.

When he feels Sebastian go still beside him upon seeing Claude, it is the first time Ciel thinks that, maybe, Sebastian isn't as unique as he'd like.

He knows all the ways to please and acknowledges none of them. From the first glimpse, he's been special, a hand to the waist, a slide of leg, a twist of smile into smirk; all the tricks down pat except where he's dead behind the eyes. Sometimes that's the best way for them to be, silent except when practicing their art, but this one was different. He is shallower, waters muddied with blood and fire, loss and heartache; flavourings to something already delectable enough to know how to play to a man's lust and own it. He isn't to be touched, no matter how he seems to enjoy it, not to be forced to fake the smile and cover up the churning madness inside with some sort of semblance of sanity. He winds his arms around, holding close, innocent, delicate, breakable, and begs for life and love. He knows all the ways to please, and wants none of them.

When he first sees Ciel, and spots the defiance in that swiftly pouted mouth, it is the first time Claude thinks that, maybe, Alois isn't as good as he'd like.

He's a businessman, a trusted confidante, a dark and twisted creature with a soul like taking flight, one white rose in a garden of those painted red, sickly sweet and incorrect. He has hands that gesture sharply, a mouth which never fails to adjust into an unconscious moue, all of him controlled and precise. He never loses his calm expression, his fits of temper legendary in their abrupt curtailment as he brings himself under control in a way that a child should not be able. When he walks, dressed like a tiny gentleman, it is with assurance, each step certain of its destination, no fear or insecurity loved within. Here is a person who is utterly secure within his own skin, working through anything which troubles him with nary a frown. He knows his worth, they say, and knows that his worth is directly related to his self-belief, his cunning, his knack with scrutinising everyone and everything until it gives under his gaze. He's a businessman, and this is nothing more than a transaction.

When he first sees Alois, dependant, fragile, and full of so much love under all that insanity, it is the first time, Sebastian thinks that, maybe, Ciel can never give him what he wants.


End file.
